Sundayâs Deadwood contained a simple exchange between madam-turned-do-gooder Joanie Stubbs (Kim Dickens) and deputy Charlie Utter (Dayton Callie) about the new schoolhouse that could be read on multiple levels at once.
On a pure plot level, this particular scene was about Joanie asking for help in locating the man responsible for building the townâs new schoolhouse, a simple wooden structure that just happens to have a tree growing up through its floorboards and out through the its roof. Joanie told Charlie she was acting on behalf of the schoolteacher Martha Bullock (Anna Gunn), the wife of Charlieâs boss, the sheriff (Timothy Olyphant); Martha wanted to be able to tell the kids why their schoolhouse looked the way it did. What would possess a man to build a house around an old tree instead of cutting it down?
Charlie asked Joanie why the teacher felt she needed to track down the architect and find out about the schoolhouseâs past.
âTo finish the story,â Joanie replied.
âMore than where the man got to once he was through, I think the story was of the tree, and the schoolhouse built around it,â Charlie said.
Then, after Joanie grew uncomfortable and turned awayâperhaps realizing that she might never get the answers she wantedâCharlie amended himself. âI guess youâre right, though,â he said. âI guess children are like that, wanting to know all the information. I guess thatâs how they are.â
This conversation wasnât just about a schoolhouse, but about many other things as well.
For one thing, it was about adapting to oneâs surroundings rather than destroying and remaking them. Americans are not predisposed to celebrate this principle, and mining boss George Hearst (Gerald McRaney), who just hired an army of Pinkerton thugs to break the camp, holds it in contempt. Hearst is a not an adapter, heâs an acquirer; when he wants something, he demands it, and when heâs refused, he tries to grab it, and when it canât be grabbed, he obliterates it, to send a message: âThis is what happens when you refuse me.â
Aside from Hearstâs patronizing but sincere affection for his cook, Aunt Lou (Cleo King)âwho lost her son Odell (Omar Gooding) this week under menacing and mysterious circumstancesâand his grief over losing his favorite legbreaker in a street fight, he seems incapable of mustering up anything resembling basic empathy or, for that matter, even a sense of comradeship unconnected to the acquisition of gold (or as he puts it, âthe colorâ).
Hearstâs mindset is illustrated by his living quarters, a room on the top floor of the hotel that he forcefully purchased from the townâs appointed mayor, E.B. Farnum (William Sanderson). When Hearst wanted an exit onto the balcony, he bashed a hole in the wall; weeks later, the hole is still there, jagged and crumbling: an open wound.
The hole in the hotel and the tree in the schoolroom gave this episode, titled âAmateur Night,â two powerful images around which the episode organized its narrative and themes. The hole was an abyss, a reminder of Hearstâs emptiness, and the emptiness of anyone who views people as obstacles. The tree, on the other hand, was made to seem sacred, mythic: it was shot from dramatically low angles so that it seemed to be frozen in the act of exploding up through the soil, like the giant vines snaking up toward the clouds in Jack and the Beanstalk. Simply put, the tree was the answer to the hole, a symbol of creationâbiblical, scientific, and artistic/literary.
This last aspect was highlighted throughout the seasonâin Bullockâs eloquent condolence letter to the family of a miner murdered by Hearstâs goons; in the burgeoning integrity of Jeffrey Jonesâs newspaperman, A.W. Merrick, who printed Bullockâs letter, and endured a retaliatory beating as a result; and in the person of theatrical impresario Langrishe (Brian Cox), who paid for the construction of that school so he could move into its old headquarters, a converted brothel. Langrishe then borrowed money from banker Alma Garret Ellsworth (Molly Parker) to start a permanent theater in Deadwood and inaugurated it with amateur night, encouraging every citizen to take center stage for a moment and reveal unknown talents and hidden sides of themselves.
Langrisheâs motivation isnât saintly; he knows that a theaterâs fortunes rest on the affection of its patrons, and what better way to earn their loyalty than to make them the stars, if only for a night? His introduction to the evening was telling: He invoked the spirit of Shakespeare with a quote from As You Like It: âAll the worldâs a stage, and all the men and women merely players.â But this wasnât an example of series creator David Milch wrapping himself in the bardâs aura, inviting more Deadwood-vs.-Shakespeare talk. It suggested merely that thereâs a through-line connecting the highest art (Hamlet, for instance) and lower forms of art and entertainment.
The man who balanced a long board atop his forehead and the man with a sign that read, âCan cry at willâ are not the creative equivalent of great actors or playwrights, nor is Milch suggesting they are. But the existence of Shakespeare, the board balancer and the weeper originate in a basic urge to connect with other people, and with society. The man balancing the board on his head distracts people from their troubles, a worthy cause. The crying manâa stand-in for every actor or writer who ever walked the earthâis a more touching figure, however comically portrayed, because he exists to feel on behalf of other people, connecting himself to them, and connecting bystanders to both of them by weeping copiously in public. Bullockâs condolence letter, however measured, performed the same function, and went a step further, stirring citizens who probably never thought of themselves as citizens to realize the extraordinary potential of this muddy little camp, take pride in the part they played there, and support anyone brave enough to stand in the way of Hearstâs thug army.
The showâs obvious affection for creative self-expression, and its deep conviction about the uses to which it should be put, suggest an attitude toward not just the series Deadwood, but toward art and entertainment in general. This season, there have been so many instances where people were entranced, moved, even changed by someone elseâs sentimentsâwritten, spoken or performedâthat thereâs no way an attentive viewer can write off Deadwood as a blood-and-guts spectacle. To watch it is to sense its idealism.
The show depicts human beings as they areâscatterbrained, selfish, myopic, sometimes viciously cruel. But it also suggests what people and their societies can become if they are willing to adapt to their circumstances, join their neighbors in rallying behind constructive values, and reinvent themselves as better people. (When Joanie said it was important to find out how the story ends, she wasnât just talking about the story of the tree; she was talking about her own story, and the stories of all the extraordinary people sheâs met in Deadwood, men and women who are only beginning to recognize their potential to change and grow.)
Art and entertainment enact that evolutionary process though ritualized gestures, words, pictures and music; even when we get lost in the pleasant fiction of the moment, we recognize some aspect of ourselves in the material, rejoice in our sharpened senses and acknowledge the depth of our capacity to feel. Creativity, Deadwood insists, is not just about getting attention and satisfying oneâs ego. Itâs a means of bridging the distance between lives that seem to have nothing in common, making strangers feel kinship with other strangers, and urging the audience to recognize and appreciate the civilizing urges that make such expression possible.
âAmateur Nightâ showcased the late stages of that evolutionary arc in scene after scene. You could see it displayed when Bullock publicly arrested a Pinkerton agent for sassing him while he investigated Morgan Earpâs shooting of another Hearst goon; and throughout the episode, the sheriff was so steadfast and coolheaded during what amounted to an invasion that he truly seemed to have become a different person from the man we met in the first few episodes of season one. (Bullockâs leadership was so undeniable that when he ordered the Earp brothers to follow him to the jail, they instantly obeyed, and something in their demeanor suggested they already thought of themselves as his deputies.)
The arc was clear in the scene where Joanie survived a frightening visit from her ex-pimp, Cy Tolliver (Powers Boothe) without losing her cool, or even allowing him through her doorway; and it was verified again later, in the scene where Joanie and her companion, Calamity Jane (Robin Weigert), walked the campâs children to their first class in the new school. (Jane crawled out from inside her bottle long enough to act as the kidsâ âescortâ through the war zone, but she was so wasted she had to hold Joanieâs hand for support.) It was time to take sides, and everyone knew itâeven the telegraph operator, Blazanov (Pasha D. Lynchnikoff), who wanted to punch Hearst in the face after delivering his telegram, but settled for refusing his customary tip; and Langrishe, a reflexive Hearst suck-up (what theater owner doesnât cozy up to the rich?) who let Hearst know that he wasnât going to put Hearstâs needs over those of his old friend Alâthen greeted the arrival of their baked ham by whipping out his very own dagger to cut it with.
For the first time in the seriesâs run, you could sense nearly every recurring character thinking and acting along the same linesâequating societyâs survival with their own, then acting accordingly. Bullockâs letter, Swearengenâs insistence that the letter be published and Merrickâs decision to commit it to print made this sense of collective responsibilityâthis need to honor something bigger than one personâpossible.
With this episode, Deadwood reached its own evolutionary signpost; the camp has become a town, its inhabitants have become a community, and any sacrifice they endure to make this status permanent will have been worth it.
That milestone had a sad undercurrent: There are only three episodes left until the series goes off the air, to return (maybe) as a couple of two-hour HBO movies. Despite Charlieâs halfhearted protestations that only children feel the need to know every detail, Joanie isnât the only one who wants to know how this story ends. We can only hope, perhaps in vain, that the cable channelâs bosses will forget the behind-the-scenes melodrama that led to the showâs untimely cancellation and give it another full season, if only to witness the final stages in the transformation of onetime villain Al Swearengen, whose final scene was truly poignant.
During the amateur night performance, he hid inside the Gem, drinking, singing to himself. The moment showed that as far as Al has come, heâs not fully civilized yet; if he were, heâd have been outside on the street, letting the whole camp hear what a lovely voice he has.
This article was originally published in the Star-Ledger.
Review: Netflixâs Space Force Is a Toothless Satire of Political Ineptitude
The series informs sitcom hijinks with a bit of political tension, but the punchlines are diluted for the sake of likability.2
Itâs distracting when a TV series or film pivots on conflicts between politicians whose party affiliation somehow goes unspecified. The motivation behind this vagueness is obvious, as showrunners and filmmakers donât wish to mire their stories with specifically right- or left-wing baggage, especially in these hyper-partisan times. Greg Daniels and Steve Carellâs Space Force suffers from a similar malady. The Netflix comedy imagines the realization of President Donald Trumpâs oft-mocked plan for a sixth branch of the U.S. military, to which over $700 billion has already been allotted. Yet Trump is never explicitly mentioned, referenced by the characters only as POTUS, and his whims are so consciously bland that one wonders if another president has been elected within this showâs world.
The showrunnersâ skittishness over the heated subject of Trump is best embodied by a number of gags in which the commander in chief texts Mark R. Naird (Carell), the four-star general newly appointed to lead Space Forceâs development. The texts are curt and macho, but they sound like regular sports coach-speak, which is to say that theyâre too coherent to suggest the way Trump actually writes or talksâat least in public. If the showâs writers had the daring to imply that Trumpâs garbled mixture of slogans and defamation was a public stunt designed to inflame his base, they might have fashioned a resonant recurring joke.
Space Forceâs premise, in which a country thatâs been in perpetual war for decades develops a blood lust so great it must try to conquer space, boasts a certain Dr. Strangelove-esque potential. Rather than tap into that potential, Space Force proceeds as one of those Daniels/Carell shows, like The Office, where Carellâs blowhard is revealed to be a nice guy underneath. It took The Office a while to lose its teeth and become a perpetual meme and cuddle-fest, while Space Force goes soft within just a few episodes before limping to an embarrassingly inspirational family reunion finale. Daniels and Carell have little interest in the Space Force as a concept; for them, itâs a backdrop for a special effects-driven workplace sitcom, replete with supporting characters who embody the usual sitcom stereotypes.
In Space Force, even potentially scathing punchlines are diluted for the sake of palatability. For instance, a congresswoman, Bryce Bachelor (Tamiko Brownlee), obviously meant to resemble Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez questions Naird about Space Forceâs ballooning budget. Like Trump, Naird (initially) shows contempt for research and has done no preparation for this hearing, spiraling off into amusingly ludicrous grandstanding that the congresswoman, astonishingly, just accepts. In such moments, the series wants it both ways: offering lightweight jokes for liberals while essentially validating the Trump playbook of bluffing minute by minute with Nairdâs unexpected victory, though the characterâs bluster does lead to one prolonged, uproarious sequence involving a chimpanzee astronaut.
Political confrontation is also superficially offered up via Nairdâs duels with the chief scientist of Space Force, Dr. Adrian Mallory (John Malkovich), who derides Americaâs hard-on for the military and contempt for intellectual reason. Malkovich, whoâs accorded the showâs most confrontationally partisan dialogue, gives an elegant, thorny performance thatâs gradually compromised by the plotting, as Naird and Mallory will, of course, bond, and Naird will learn the errors of his reactionary ways, embracing reason over violent confrontation. In another example of pandering wishy-washiness, the series eventually goes out of its way to celebrate Space Force, un-ironically, after spending so much time mocking it.
Similarly, Carell is so uncertain in this role that he canât even settle on a voice. Early on, Naird talks in a gruff military-man fashion that suggests George C. Scottâs general in Dr. Strangelove. Otherwise, Naird is just sweet old Steve Carell, though sometimes his voice changes within a scene, suggesting that this device might be an intentional joke. The character, like Mallory, also suffers from increasingly random storylines that strive to humanize Naird in clichĂ©d terms. For some reason, he has a wife, Maggie (Lisa Kudrow), who goes to prison so that Space Force may offer callbacks to the opening season of Netflixâs own Orange Is the New Black.
Space Force renders the architects of our worldâs destabilization, like Trump, his enablers, and military hawks, into lovably misguided dadsâa common entertainment trope. In 30 Rock, a conservative billionaire gradually became besties with a liberal TV producer, allowing her to feel better about distracting America with pop-cultural detritus. In The Office, the initially moving misery of a group of corporate drones was steadily dialed down for the sake of feel-good sentimentality, as a once-contemptible manager became a poignant goof. Even in an ostensibly edgier film like War Machine, a generalâs atrocities are downplayed for the sake of easy caricature. These entertainments suggest that the unmooring turmoil of modern life isnât so bad, giving us an excuse to write off our blossoming dystopia with a semi-amused âeh.â An act of satirical heartlessness would be more compassionate than fortune-cookie uplift.
Cast: Steve Carell, John Malkovich, Tawny Newsome, Ben Schwartz, Diana Silvers, Jessica St. Clair, Fred Willard, Don Lake, Noah Emmerich, Lisa Kudrow, Owen Daniels, Alex Sparrow, Jimmy O. Yang Network: Netflix
Review: Huluâs The Great Revises History with Riotous Irreverence
The series takes on Catherine the Great with off-kilter comedy and startling poignancy.3.5
Tony McNamaraâs alternately riotous and poignant Hulu miniseries The Great begins with the future Catherine the Great (Elle Fanning) leaving Austria for Russia to marry the countryâs emperor, Peter (Nicholas Hoult). Catherine wants to bring the Enlightenment to her new homeâto abolish serfdom, proliferate literacy, and embrace art and scienceâbut Peter is a doltish man-child more interested in philandering than leading. His governing style is self-serving and myopic; for one, he refuses to pull Russia out of its disastrous war with Sweden, as heâs desperate for a victory akin to those of his late father, Peter the Great. What little progress the young Catherine makes in reforming Peter is fleeting, and because sheâs confident that sheâs destined to save Russia, she plans a coup.
Like Yorgos Lanthimosâs The Favourite, which McNamara co-wrote and features Hoult in a supporting role as a sycophantic politician, the series rejects the commitment to historical fact that burdens many period pieces. Catherine channels the empressâs ambition and relatively liberal bent, but the characters around her are composites and fabrications; Peter, for instance, is only loosely based on Peter III, and provides a vehicle for Houltâs unnerving blend of youthful earnestness and wanton cruelty. This historical freewheeling feeds into The Greatâs broader irreverence, which comes through in every jarringly crass line coated in period-drama affectâlike when Peter tells Catherine, over a meal, that heâs set on producing an heir. âI’d do it now, but I just blew my bag on Madame Dimov,â he says, causing Catherine to nearly choke on her food. âMy God,â she says, âa phrase I have never heard.â
The delectably off-kilter dialogue highlights Catherineâs alienation. She first arrives to court a naĂŻve idealist, prim and proper, but as she develops into a skilled politician, she demonstrates growing comfort navigating the crudeness surrounding her. She eventually attempts to win over Grigor (Gwilym Lee), Peterâs best friend, who canât stand the emperorâs dalliance with his wife, Georgina (Charity Wakefield). âHe eats fruits various from your wifeâs cunt on a daily basis,â Catherine says to Grigor, egging him on. Grigorâs eyes bulge and his jaw clenches. Itâs an almost revelatory moment for Catherine in her quest to wield a less bloody sort of power.
Catherineâs co-conspirators initially consist of Marial (Phoebe Fox), her maid, who hatches the scheme; Count Orlo (Sacha Dhawan), an influential but meek bureaucrat in Peterâs inner circle; and Leo (Sebastian de Souza), the compassionate and winsome lover gifted to Catherine by Peter in accordance with the courtâs libertine ethos. These characters contextualize Catherineâs idealism and innocence. Where sheâs eager to take the throne and launch her virtuous reign, they recognize that deposing an emperor is slow and messy business.
One of the central elements of Catherineâs political education is figuring out how to seize power as a woman in a thoroughly misogynistic environment, one filled with oafs such as the frequently drunk General Velementov (Douglas Hodge), whoâd rather try to seduce Catherine than hear about her ambitions. Catherine and Marial commiserate about the sexism they face, but their discussions expose Catherineâs ignorance of how class difference shapes their distinct experiences. These interactions subtly and effectively cast doubt on Catherineâs claims of readiness by showing that her lofty goals of egalitarianism are far clearer to her than the nuts and bolts of classism, let alone the complexities of ruling an empire.
Catherineâs blind spots come to a head when she addresses a room full of powerful men at a time of profound uncertainty. Itâs a crucial opportunity to win their respect, but she flounders: Her instincts are off, she knows nothing of Russia, and the men spurn her. Fanning deftly embodies Catherineâs distress as the characterâs sense of self shatters, her breaths turning into gasps and her dreams of leading Russia slipping through her anxiously fidgeting hands.
Catherineâs true exemplar at court is Elizabeth (Belinda Bromilow), Peterâs bohemian aunt, who largely shares her progressive politics. Elizabeth is totally unconcerned with what others think about her, and while her boldness can feel unremarkable given the cushy position she occupies at court, itâs marvelous to witness. She airs her perspective most compellingly in scenes with âArchieâ the Archbishop (Adam Godley), who represents the church and abhors Catherineâs humanism. The pair are two of the The Greatâs sharpest minds, and their absorbing conversations spill tantalizingly into blasphemy and treason, as when Archie floats the possibility of Elizabeth replacing her nephew on the throne.
As for Peter, he tries to better himself under Catherineâs influenceâunbanning the printing press, holding art and science fairsâand he shows signs of sweetness, but nothing sticks. The series elucidates his behavior with sympathetic reflections on his inner workings. Peter lives in the shadow of his late parents, suffocated by his fatherâs outsized legacy and scarred by his motherâs disdain. In one of The Greatâs most stirring moments, a shot of Catherine and Leo kissing by firelight cuts to a dark room and pans to reveal Peter curled up on a statue of his father. Such sequences stop short of excusing Peterâs vileness, but they do render his arrested development more tragic than laughable. They also make the tension nestled in the seriesâs title increasingly plain: Great is both what Catherine will become and what Peter will never be.
Cast: Elle Fanning, Nicholas Hoult, Sebastian De Souza, Sacha Dhawan, Phoebe Fox, Adam Godley, Belinda Bromilow, Douglas Hodge, Gwilym Lee, Charity Wakefield, Bayo Gbadamosi, Louis Hynes Network: Hulu
Review: HBOâs I Know This Much Is True Is an Unrelenting Catalog of Tragedy
The limited series is a carnival of horrors weighed down by moralizing, hysteria, and cross-associations.1.5
Based on Wally Lambâs 1998 novel of the same name, Derek Cianfranceâs I Know This Much Is True offers an unrelenting carnival of horrors. Throughout the limited seriesâs six episodes, there are instances of rape, child abuse, death, self-mutilation, suicide, several brutal accidents, even allusions to a family curse. At a certain point, those new to Lambâs story may anticipate intimations of incest, as thatâs about the only shock left for Cianfrance to spring on usâand the subject is eventually toyed with, if ultimately abandoned, in a deeply expendable subplot. If Cianfrance had approached this convoluted narrative as the pulp that it truly is, in the key of, say, Ryan Murphy, the series mightâve emitted a disreputable spark. Unfortunately, I Know This Much Is True is supposed to be âaboutâ something, and so the outlandishness is weighed down by moralizing and fancy cross-associations.
Set primarily in a small Connecticut town in the early 1990s, with flashbacks that span from the 1800s to the 1980s, I Know This Much Is True vaguely parallels a familyâs legacy of misery with Americaâs launching of the Gulf War. President George Bush is seen frequently on televisions in various backgrounds, as are vintage MTV music videos, which Cianfrance will occasionally emphasize to enhance the seriesâs pervading anti-nostalgic mood, especially in the numerous depictions of people arguing and couples breaking up and storming out on one another. Our narrator and tour guide is Dominick Birdsey (Mark Ruffalo), an aspiring writer who never left town because of his unstable and dependent twin brother, Thomas (also Ruffalo), who was diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic as a young adult. Dominick describes his brother as an âanchor,â but itâs evident early on that he loves playing the role of savior as a way of evading his responsibility for the general disappointment of his adult life.
In the seriesâs â90s-era thread, Thomas becomes convinced that he must make a blood sacrifice to end the Gulf War, and he does something shocking that lands him in a high-security mental health hospital. This appears to be a rational decision on the part of the facilityâs board, as Thomas is clearly mentally ill, though Dominick is determined to get his brother returned to a low-security hospital. Cianfrance squanders the wrenching potential in this conflict with macho sentimentality. If we were allowed to understand that Dominickâs quest for Thomas is vain and dangerous, rooted in his guilt-ridden hero complex, then we might have been pulled in recognizably contradictory emotional directions, empathizing with both brothers while fearing Dominickâs recklessness. However, this emotional response is only inadvertently triggered, as weâre supposed to see Dominick as trashing his own life to defend his brother against the Man. And in a shameless twist, Dominickâs ire with the new hospital is validated.
Cianfrance is less interested in mining the nuances of mental illness than in wallowing in existential male angst, as he did in films like Blue Valentine and The Place Beyond the Pines. In much of his work, Cianfrance appears to be trying to conjure the mood that might arise if one listened to Bruce Springsteenâs Born to Run while watching a production of Sam Shepardâs Buried Child. Like those artists, Cianfrance is fixated on the idea of the ever-tormented working-class male representing the heart of the American psyche, but Springsteen and Shepard offered poetry and, in Springsteenâs case, humor and authentic rapture. By contrast, Cianfrance lingers on misery as a signpost of his integrity. The many flashbacks in I Know This Much Is True, involving Dominick and Thomas at various ages (as well as other family members), assert the same point over and over: that this family hurts itself, dashing every moment of hopefulness. (In fairness, the flashbacks are filtered through Dominickâs embittered sensibility, though their validity is generally meant to be taken at face value.)
Other long portions of I Know This Much Is True abound in shaky close-ups of Dominickâs face as he rants against largely caring family members and professionals whoâre simply trying to help him. Disturbed individuals like him are certainly capable of irrationally lashing out at their loved ones, but thatâs the only quality of such interactions that Cianfrance seems to recognize, and over a several-hour period these sequences come to embody a form of sensory deprivation, which is compounded by the filmmakerâs general aversion to humor. Given the extraordinary images that cinematographer Jody Lee Lipes has fashioned in the past, the self-pitying crabbiness of Cianfranceâs vision is practically offensive.
Still, Ruffaloâs casting was astute, because if Cianfrance had hired an actor with a more conventionally closed-off masculine mystique, the series mightâve been totally unwatchable. Ruffalo gives sensitive, impassioned performances, and he differentiates his characters without making a show of it. Thomasâs slouched, defeated physicality is heartbreaking even in the seriesâs most categorically insane moments, while Dominickâs thinner, straighter frame signifies his tightly coiled willingness to pounce upon the slightest provocation. Yet, itâs unseemly to watch an actor as thoughtful as Ruffalo submit himself to all this thrashing about, and you may find yourself pulling back from him in a manner akin to how Pauline Kael resisted Robert De Niroâs self-torturing exhibitionism in Raging Bull. (Thereâs even a reference to the Martin Scorsese film here: a close-up of Dominickâs twisted and gnarled face thatâs held for a self-consciously ugly and interminable length of time.)
The most maddening thing about the obviously talented Cianfrance is his refusal to get out of his own way (come to think of it, Kael wrote something similar about Scorsese in her review of Raging Bull). For all of the ostentatious negativity of I Know This Much Is True, there are haunting and subtle flourishes. When eight-year-old Thomas (Rocco Masihi) humiliates himself on a school bus, we casually see another child give him a hug as he walks dejected up to the front of the vehicle. And when Dominick and Thomasâs semi-abusive, sort-of-loving stepfather, Ray (John Proccacino), suffers a heart attack, he speaks to Dominick in a halting manner that suggests his and Dominickâs worst fears of deflated masculinity, and itâs of course at this point that the two men start to bond. As predictable as they might be, these moments come as a relief from the hours of redundant emotional violence and disappointment. It was also astute to cast Rosie OâDonnell as an advocate and Michael Greyeyes as a mysterious janitor, as their poignant underacting briefly offsets the showâs chest-thumping masochism.
But I Know This Much Is True is still a shambles, a catalog of tragic events thatâs meant to rhyme the Gulf War, the catalyst for the current endless American war machine, with the modern ennui thatâs signified by Dominickâs irritability and Thomasâs madness. And even all that undigested subtext isnât enough for Cianfrance, who keeps throwing things at the screen, from period flashbacks to an Italian grandfather (Simone Cappo) whoâs meant to suggest the seed of American racism, to a missing girl who anticipates the reveal of Dominick and Thomasâs unseen father, who references our nationâs legacy of genocide. In this numbing, ludicrous production, Thomasâs paranoid fantasies become virtually indistinguishable from the hokum that Cianfrance offers up with solemn sincerity.
Cast: Mark Ruffalo, Kathryn Hahn, Rob Huebel, John Procaccino, Melissa Leo, Rosie O'Donnell, Philip Ettinger, Archie Panjabi, Michael Greyeyes, Tom Stratford, Donnie Masihi, Rocco Masihi, Simone Coppo, Aisling Franciosi, Matt Helm, Zaria Degenhardt, Marcello Fonte, Irene Muscara, Agatha Nowicki, Roberta Rigano Network: HBO
Review: HBO’s Bad Education Paints an Ambiguous Portrait of Greed
Though it needlessly withholds certain details for dramatic effect, the film resists embellishment or caricature.3
Everybody seems to love Dr. Frank Tassone (Hugh Jackman), superintendent of the Roslyn, Long Island school district. Heâs personable, impeccably groomed, and responsible for getting the district ranked number four in the state. And over the course of HBOâs true-crime film Bad Education, he scrambles to cover up a potential scandal that could torpedo the school boardâs budget: Assistant superintendent Pam Gluckin (Allison Janney) has been embezzling from the district for years. To complicate matters further, an intrepid school newspaper reporter, Rachel Bhargava (Geraldine Viswanathan), is sniffing around, which might just unearth the wide scope of the operation.
Accompanied by ironic classical music cues, Bad Education paints an unattractive portrait of its main characters. The filmâs color palette is muted, and the wrinkles on the actorsâ faces are featured prominently in close-ups. Their actions are even less flattering: As ludicrously underpaid as teaching may be, the crass extravagance of the townâs embezzlers is made abundantly clear via house renovations, pieds-Ă -terre, first-class flights, facelifts, and moreâall on the schoolâs dime, written off as some ambiguous charge from a suspicious company.
Though the film needlessly withholds certain details to artificially pump up the drama through eventual plot twists, Bad Education resists embellishment or caricature. Instead, by probing the truly thankless task of teaching kids while under the thumb of district rankings, school board demands, and an endless parade of antagonistic parents, the film presents educators like Gluckin and Tassone with a surprising degree of sincerity and dedication to their jobs. They remember the names, the parents, the hobbies, and the siblings of all the kids who come through Roslyn. They really did get the place ranked number four.
There is, of course, more to Tassone than his composed, genial exterior suggests, most of which should be left for the audience to discover. And though the embezzlers are explicitly in the wrong, their justifications are not so easily shaken off; they are right, after all, in observing that the director of the school board (Ray Romano) makes seven figures selling real estate with values directly tied to the success of Roslyn, while the teachers and administrators remain underpaid and overworked. Rather than a simplistic, straightforward parable of greed, Bad Education depicts its true events with a surprising amount of depth and ambiguity.
Cast: Hugh Jackman, Allison Janney, Ray Romano, Geraldine Viswanathan, Alex Wolff, Rafael Casal, Stephen Spinella, Annaleigh Ashford
Review: Beastie Boys Story Is Part Memorial, Part TED Talk
Billed as a âlive documentary experience,â the film has the feel of a PowerPoint presentation.2.5
In Beastie Boys Story, the bandâs surviving members, Michael Diamond and Adam Horovitz, describe their gradual realization that Def Jam executive Russell Simmons embraced them only because he thought any group of white rappers could become superstars in the mid 1980s. The Beastie Boys could have easily become defined forever by their first pop hit, 1986âs âFight for Your Right,â and the misogynistic spectacle of their early performances. Instead, they showed a remarkable ability to reinvent themselves: Their sound evolved from the minimal beats and metal riffs of their debut, Licensed to Ill, to the dizzying, sampledelic collage of Paulâs Boutique, after which their music became harder to pin down, as they returned to their punk roots on early-â90s hits like âSabotage.â
That songâs iconic music video was directed by longtime collaborator Spike Jonze, whoâs also at the helm here. Billed as a âlive documentary experience,â the film has the feel of a PowerPoint presentation, with Diamond and Horovitz speaking to a live audience on stage alongside props like a reel-to-reel tape machine playing a loop from Led Zeppelinâs âWhen the Levee Breaks,â which forms the basis of 1986âs âRhymin & Stealin.â The duo runs through the bullet points of their professional history, recounting the regret and disgust they felt over their early stage shows, in which they acted out the characters of the beer-guzzling bros they created for Licensed to Ill, and lamenting how the record executives they considered friends refused to pay them royalties despite the massive success of the album.
As different as is from, say, Tayor Swiftâs Miss Americana or BeyoncĂ©âs Homecoming, Beastie Boys Story fits into the recent trend of music docs in which the subjects exercise almost complete control over the way their stories are told. The 572-page Beastie Boys Book, published in 2018, covers the same ground as the film with a more innovative approach. Instead of writing a conventional memoir, Diamond and Horovitz published a collection of essays from friends and cultural critics, laying out the bandâs history in both photos and prose. Beastie Boys Story feels stiff in comparison. The bookâs essays by drummer Kate Schellenbach and others examining the groupâs attitude toward women make a far more compelling case than clips of Diamond and Horovitz criticizing the lyrics of âGirlsâ or pointing to the more feminist sentiments of their latter-day music.
The Beastie Boys called it quits in 2012 after the death of founding member Adam Yauch. Throughout the film, Diamond and Horovitz credit Yauch with some of the groupâs biggest changes in direction. âI want to say a little something thatâs long overdue/The disrespect to women has got to be throughâ he raps on 1994âs âSure Shot,â effectively signaling the trioâs move toward more progressive politics. His conversion to Buddhism, friendship with the Dalai Lama, and turn toward pro-Tibetan activism helped completely overhaul the bandâs public image in the early â90s. Beastie Boys Story returns to stories of Yauchâs creative influence and unpredictability, and its final act turns into an outright tribute to the late rapper and musician. The film, then, often feels like a cross between a TED talk and a memorial service, but one gets the sense that Diamond and Horovitz are finally getting yearsâ worth of grief off their chests. The cumulative effect is, at the very least, touching.
Cast: Michael Diamond, Adam Horovitz, Adam Yauch Network: Apple TV+
Review: Mrs. America Reckons with the Squandered Potential for Womenâs Rights
The series suggests that winning hearts and minds is a naĂŻve pipe dream, a strategy more fit for TV than for electoral politics.3.5
In the 1950s, two decades before FXâs Mrs. America takes place, future congresswoman Bella Abzug (Margo Martindale) braved death threats while appealing the case of Willie McGee, a black man convicted of raping a white woman and sentenced to death in Mississippi after a mere hours-long trial and a jury deliberation that lasted less than three minutes. Late in the series, Abzug recalls her past idealism as she mulls cutting the contentious gay rights resolution from the 1977 National Womenâs Conference. Visiting Betty Friedan (Tracey Ullman), Abzug asks, âDoes it bother you that no one calls you a radical anymore?â To which Friedan answers, âThe movement is getting down to middle America. Weâre mainstream, thatâs a good thing.â The congresswoman nods with heartbreaking subtlety, recognizing that whatâs become mainstream remains insufficient.
Mrs. America, the creation of writer-producer Dahvi Waller, deftly reckons with decades of squandered political potential, both in its depiction of the â70s and in the parallels it draws with the present. At the core of the series is the Equal Rights Amendment and the vigorous opposition it met from conservative author and activist Phyllis Schlafly (Cate Blanchett), first in Illinois and then around the nation. The series charts Schlaflyâs mobilization of housewives against the amendment out of a purported belief that the womenâs liberation movement rivaled the Soviets in the danger it posed to American life. Over the course of Mrs. Americaâs nine episodes, she builds the âpro-family,â doggedly anti-abortion, predominantly Christian coalition that helps thwart the ERA and land Ronald Reagan in the White House.
Of course, that same coalition has played an instrumental role in Donald Trumpâs ascendance to the presidency. Here, Schlafly resembles Trump in her truth-flexing fearmongering, but unlike him, sheâs not a man and must deal with the consequences. Though Schlafly mentions at one point that sheâs never been discriminated against, her interactions with chauvinist politicians like Republican congressman Phil Crane (James Marsden), and even with her well-meaning but insensitive husband, Fred (John Slattery), serve as nauseating evidence to the contrary. Schlaflyâs face regularly strains under the forced smile she wears around these men, and the consistency with which she masks her responses makes the moments in which her faĂ§ade briefly cracks all the more evocative. At times, her smile gives way to a blankness that suggests frustration, quiet anger, or despairâor, perhaps, resignation.
Mrs. America reflects on the injustices that Schlafly experiences but refuses to romanticize her or her work. Plot beats expose Schlaflyâs intellectual dishonesty and tacit acceptance of the Ku Klux Klanâs endorsement. Schlaflyâs conversations with Lottie Beth Hobbs (Cindy Drummond), a collaborator based in Texas, particularly shatter the duoâs claims of moral high ground. Hobbs gives strikingly lucid insight into reactionary strains of Christianity, a faith she argues relies not only on love, but also on hate.
The sober approach of Mrs. Americaâs historical accounting extends across the political expanse. The series highlights the failings of the womenâs liberation movement in the â70s, namely its solipsistic centering of whiteness. Congresswoman Shirley Chisholm (Uzo Aduba) serves as a primary vector for the seriesâs exploration of race as she mounts a presidential campaign, competing against frontrunner George McGovern in the Democratic primaryâand becoming the first-ever black candidate for the Democratic or Republican nomination. In the third episode, with her run collapsing around her, Chisholm vents in her hotel room and rails against the allies abandoning her. Aduba wondrously channels Chisholmâs frustration, inhaling sharply between lines and raising her voice as she builds momentum, each incremental increase in volume giving fuller form to her ire.
Mrs. America chronicles endless missed opportunities in U.S. politics but also includes a more hopeful and inspiring personal journey: that of Alice Macray (Sarah Paulson), Schlaflyâs best friend and supporter. Initially a Schlafly stalwart up in arms against the ERA, Macray gradually exhibits an openness to new perspectives and compromise. Her growth is admirable but proves to be a false comfort; it turns out that sheâs a fictional character created for the series. In one of its most intriguing political statements, Mrs. America suggests that winning hearts and minds is a naĂŻve pipe dream, a strategy more fit for TV than for electoral politics.
Cast: Cate Blanchett, Rose Byrne, Sarah Paulson, Margo Martindale, Uzo Aduba, Elizabeth Banks, Tracey Ullman, John Slattery, Ari Graynor, Jeanne Tripplehorn, Melanie Lynskey, Kayli Carter, Niecy Nash, Cindy Drummond, James Marsden, Adam Brody, Jay Ellis, Bria SamonĂ© Henderson Network: FX
Review: Will & Grace Effortlessly Channels the Spirit of I Love Lucy
The episode is a reminder of just how influential I Love Lucy still is, and a testament to Will & Graceâs own legacy.3.5
By the end of its original eight-season run, Will & Grace had long since jumped the shark, plagued by stunt casting, back-from-the-dead husbands, and, of course, that finale, which the 2017 revival of the show wisely sought fit to pretend never happened. Prompted in part by the 2016 election, Will & Grace found new purpose in the Trump era, thoughtfully navigating topics like conversion therapy, the Me Too movement, and religious freedomâthe latter of which was depicted in a shrewd inversion of recent wedding cake discrimination cases, with a lesbian baker refusing to fill an order honoring the president.
With only three episodes left, however, Will & Grace has decided to pull one last stunt, and itâs one that, surprisingly, the series has never tried before: a tribute to I Love Lucy. Since the showâs inception, critics have been wont to liken Debra Messing to Lucille Ball, not just because of her fiery red hair, but her deft mix of self-deprecation and broad slapstick. The latter quality, best exemplified in a season-two episode in which Graceâs water bra springs a leak to uproarious effect, would eventually become the province of dysfunctional sidekicks Jack and Karen, played by Sean Hayes and Megan Mullally, respectively.
It would have been easy enough to simply recast Will & Graceâs central foursome as Lucy, Ricky, Fred, and Ethel. But the reverently titled âWe Love Lucyâ gives Messing, Mullally, and Hayes each their own crack at Lucy, as their characters spar over which one of them is most similar to the famous â50s TV wife. (Ever the straight man, no pun intended, Eric McCormack plays Rickyâwith a dubious Cuban accentâfor the entirety of the episode.)
âWe Love Lucyâ faithfully reconstructs iconic scenes from I Love Lucy, with Mullally stomping grapes with perennial archrival Beverley Leslie (Leslie Jordan) and Hayes, in Lucy drag, stuffing chocolate bon bons in his mouth like a squirrel hoarding nuts. But itâs Messing, whoâs always been Will & Graceâs unsung secret weapon, who pitch-perfectly fills Lucyâs shoes in a recreation of the famous Vitameatavegamin bit from I Love Lucy, in which Lucy drunkenly stumbles her way through a TV commercial for the elixir.
For this episode, Will & Graceâs production team painstakingly created replicas of I Love Lucyâs sets, costumes, and props (including 1,200 pounds of black grapes), and the scenes themselves are nearly shot-for-shot recreations of the originals. Messingâs mimicry is similarly uncanny: Her performance pays tribute to both Ball and her own gift for physical comedy, right down to her quivering grimace and inebriated slur.
Recent episodes of Will & Grace have fallen back on old tricks: Guest stars abound, from Gus Kentworthy to Demi Lovato, who plays a surrogate-slash-cam-girl throughout the season, but aside from a clever cameo by Lucie Arnaz, âWe Love Lucyâ lets its four leads shine as they alternate roles. In contrast to Messingâs spot-on embodiment of Lucy, Mullally hilariously imbues every character she plays with a little bit of Karen Walker, deadpanning a signature quip about Lucyâs quilted frock and playing Fred in full makeup and martini in hand.
Will & Grace hit its stride during the early years of the George W. Bush presidency, serving as a weekly declaration thatâdespite the administrationâs campaign to erase LGBTQ peopleâweâre here, some of us are queerer than others, and we might just help your daughter get her shit together. While Karenâs casual pill-popping feels out of touch in the age of rampant opioid addiction, the showâs revival has confronted hot topics more unapologetically than ever, most memorably in last seasonâs âGraceâs Secret,â in which Grace tearfully confides in her father about a sexual assault. So itâs both ironic and fitting that âWe Love Lucyâ is one of the showâs final episodesâa reminder of just how influential I Love Lucy still is, and a testament to Will & Graceâs own, albeit very different, legacy.
Cast: Eric McCormack, Debra Messing, Sean Hayes, Megan Mullally Network: NBC
Review: Tales from the Loop Explores the Complexities of Human Connection
The series is a character study in which wounded introverts wrestle with their inability to connect with others.3
Amazonâs Tales from the Loop is set in a pastoral farm community that seems to simultaneously embody the past and future. There are no cellphones here, and bars and diners have a rustic â50s-era feel. However, large robots also populate the area, often seen in the backgrounds of compositions, suggesting solitary guards. The robots also feel rustic, nearly forgotten, like broken-down tractors. Rather than serve as conventionally awe-inspiring special effects, the robots appear to be taken for granted by the human characters, and the casualness of their presence is one of the showâs enchantments. The robots have a metaphorical weight, echoing the uncertainty and melancholia of the humans.
High-concept sci-fi is often heavy with exposition. By contrast, Tales from the Loopâs creator, Nathaniel Halpern, and his various collaborators allow the mysteries of the central premise to hang, barely explained, throughout the three episodes made available to press. The town exists above a secret lab, created by Russ (Jonathan Pryce), which is said to explore the properties of the universe. And at the center of the lab is the sort of mystical huge orb thatâs been featured in countless genre stories, and which can apparently alter the space-time continuum.
The townâs citizens have come to accept the extraordinariness of certain things as ordinary, which also spares the series from having to spell things out. And the sci-fi window dressing is gradually revealed to be misdirection anyway, as Tales from the Loop, which is based on Simon StĂ„lenhagâs 2014 narrative art book, is mostly a character study, in which wounded introverts and workaholic intellectuals wrestle with their inability to connect with others.
A major theme of the series is the relationship between children and their parents, the latter of which spend long hours obsessing over projects at the lab. In the premiere episode, a young girl, Loretta (Abby Ryder Fortson), loses her mother, Alma (Elektra Kilbey), whoâs disappeared after stealing a crystal from the orb. In a haunting image, potentially a vision, or maybe a projection or a memory, Loretta sees her house floating upward toward the sky in pieces. Distraught and homeless, Loretta is helped by a boy, Cole (Duncan Joiner), and his mother (Rebecca Hall). Eschewing the cuteness of other kidsâ quest series like Stranger Things, director Mark Romanek fashions an earnest, somber portrait of neglect and regret, in which a woman is afforded the ability to see herself through the lens of the past. Forston and Hall hit striking notes of despair, each dramatizing a war between intellectuality and emotion.
Each episode of Tales from the Loop is standalone yet interconnected. A minor character in one episode, seemingly a background actor, becomes the star of anotherâa device that casually illustrates how we are all alternatingly the protagonists of our own lives and bit players in the lives of others, and how many of us are dogged by similar existential issues. The series suggests that weâre together in our aloneness, an idea thatâs reminiscent of the stories of Raymond Carver. At one point, Coleâs mother is revealed to be Loretta as a grownupâa twist, in the key of Christopher Nolanâs Interstellar, thatâs telegraphed by Fortson and Hallâs remarkable resemblance to one another, and various other characters are brought, via the labâs technology, into confrontations with alternate versions of themselves.
In another episode, Cole shouts into a hollowed out thing that resembles a wrecked miniature Death Star. The echoes he hears are his voice across the various stages of his life, which director Andrew Stanton fashions into a moving symbol of a boyâs grappling for the first time with aging, loss, and impermanency. Given center stage, Joiner, like Fortson before him, offers an unsentimentally stoic portrait of yearning.
As themes go, âlife goes onâ would surely rank as one of the least profound, but Tales from the Loop continues to offer details that resonate. Weâre allowed to understand that Coleâs father and Russâs son, George (Paul Schneider), resents the connection between Cole and Russ, as well as between Russ and Loretta, a prized employee at the lab. This resentment is barely articulated, but Schneider informs George with a heartbreaking dwarfed quality, which is affirmed by the showâs most poignant special effect: the mechanical arm that George, an amputee, wears. The arm physicalizes his sense of being eclipsed by everyone around him.
Such body language is also evident in Gaddis (Ato Essandoh), a guard at the lab. Gay and terminally single, Gaddis tells Loretta that it must be nice to come home to an already lit house, signifying familial presence. She says what many married people have said to lonely-hearts over the years, in TV and real life: Itâs not as easy as it looks.
Tales from the Loop recalls the spirit of the films of executive producer Matt Reeves, especially Let Me In, which could serve as the title of this series as well. Both productions imbue familiar genre tropes with restlessness, with a wandering sense of irresolution. The landscapes of Tales from the Loop are beautiful but somehow unwelcoming in their sense of lonely sparsenessâechoing the imagery of the source material, Simon StĂ„lenhagâs illustrated book of the same nameâwhile Philip Glass and Paul Leonard-Morganâs score practically subsumes the series in longing. For Tales from the Loop, the mysteries of the universe play second fiddle to the perils of giving up, of resigning oneself to solitary nights in a town that suggests a perpetual past.
Cast: Rebecca Hall, Paul Schneider, Jonathan Pryce, Abby Ryder Fortson, Duncan Joiner, Ato Essandoh, Jane Alexander, Elektra Kilbey, Shane Carruth, Jodi Lynn Thomas, Victor J. Ho, Brian Mallard, Leann Lei Network: Amazon
Review: HBOâs Run Doesnât Sustain Itself Beyond Its Initially Thrilling Premise
The long-form storytelling obligations of a TV series soon overwhelm this simple but compelling premise.2
Ruby (Merritt Wever) once made a pact with her ex-boyfriend, Billy (Domhnall Gleeson): If both text the word âRUNâ to each other within a certain period of time, they will drop everything and travel together across America for one week, after which they must decide if they want to part ways for good. Commencing right after they exchange that fateful texts 17 years after college, HBOâs Run plays like a consciously frazzled version of Before Sunset. Like that film, Run depicts romance as messy and complicated, especially on such short notice: Not only is Ruby in a parking lot when she receives Billyâs text, prompting her to open the door of her minivan and hit an adjacent vehicle, but sheâs also married.
Once reunited, Ruby and Billy fall easily into flirty old habits, but the series keeps an intriguing focus on the tension and awkwardness of their situation. âWho does this?â Ruby says aloud at one point, in disbelief of their impulsive behavior. Theyâre desperate to get away from their humdrum lives, and theyâre doing their best to make a good impression on each other while gingerly broaching the potential for sex, which leads to one of Runâs most amusing scenes: the pair flailing around in a private train compartment, accidentally turning on sinks and bumping against the top bunk in the heat of the moment. Full of fraught, longing looks and palpable chemistry, the start of the series sweeps us up right alongside the characters, who rediscover one another while dancing around the developments of the intervening years.
But the long-form storytelling obligations of a TV series soon overwhelm this simple but compelling premise: Billy has larger problems than he initially lets on, and those reveals trickle out in piecemeal fashion alongside his former assistant Fionaâs (Archie Panjabi) determined attempts to halt his escapade. Thereâs a sense that the series doesnât quite trust itself to subsist merely on the lower-stakes drama of Ruby and Billy running away together. Runâs tone abruptly shifts after the first two episodes, with the introduction of more urgent, suspenseful elements like Billy inexplicably fighting to keep the sizable contents of his bank account away from Fiona. Much of the interpersonal humor gives way to wackier situations meant to heighten both the stakes and the charactersâ reactions, but the results are too broadly comedic while nudging the characters to new heights of self-absorption.
Many of the sillier comic situations simply involve being shitty to wage workers, but Run also tosses off issues about the morality of Billyâs self-help business with little mind for their seriousness. Though the series certainly isnât blind to Ruby and Billyâs rather pronounced sense of entitlement, the chaos piling up in their wake becomes far less endearing than itâs seemingly meant to be. Ruby and Billyâs actions make them harder and harder to root for, and Run becomes unable to sustain itself beyond the initial thrill of their reunion.
Cast: Merritt Wever, Domhnall Gleeson, Archie Panjabi, Rich Sommer, Phoebe Waller-Bridge Network: HBO
Review: In The Virtues, Transience Is a Path to Personal Redemption
The series is a reminder that facing up to oneâs problems doesnât guarantee release, but does allow for the possibility of moving forward.3.5
Transience is a recurring motif in Shane Meadowsâs The Virtues. The four-episode series is filled with scenes in which recovering alcoholic Joseph (Stephen Graham) trudges through city streets and countryside roads toward an uncertain future. Unmoored after his ex-wife, Debbie (Juliet Ellis), announces that sheâs moving with their son, Shea (Shea Michael Shaw), to Australia, Joe relapses in a big way. Seeking to regain some hold of his life, he decides to return to his native Ireland to track down his sister, Anna (Helen Behan), whom he hasnât seen since he was sent to an orphanage after their parentsâ deaths. Joeâs return home triggers confrontations with traumatic memories warped and repressed by time, suggesting that the only way to overcome oneâs past is to confront it head on.
Meadowsâs work as a filmmaker has charted how misery and hopelessness manifests in post-imperial Britain. Heâs always had an intuitiveness that transcends the ostensible realism of his desaturated palettes and handheld camerawork, and here he shows a new level of aesthetic subjectivity. When Joe is sober, his tremors rhyme with the shaking of the camera; when Joe drinks, however, the camera turns sedate, swaying more slowly as the relief of intoxication washes over him, followed by sudden, erratic cuts when he inevitably blacks out.
Meadows visualizes Joeâs repressed memories with snatches of home-video-grade images of the manâs childhood. The blotchy, low-resolution of the video, redolent of Harmony Korineâs early work, manifests Joeâs hazy grasp on his past, and the escalating intercutting of such clips with the present-day material as the series progresses mimics the overwhelming rush of his recalling the full extent of his trauma. Meadows parcels out this footage with precision, teasing us with the indecipherable images until whatâs being depicted becomes all too clear.
As nervous as Joe is in conversations with others, heâs also quick to befriend strangers. And he has a special affinity for children, at once playfully immature and genuinely tender and caring toward them. In his farewell with Shea, Joe humbly reassures him that itâs okay if he calls his stepfather, David (Vauxhall Jermaine), âdad.â Like many an addict, Joe can be overwhelming and caustic, but Graham foregrounds the manâs unending attempts to tamp down his worst impulses, focusing less on Joeâs capacity for overbearing behavior and more on his shame and ability to charm people in spite of his withdrawn, nervous energy.
As the series progresses, Joeâs struggles are contrasted with other characters dealing with their own suppressed issues. His sister-in-law, Dinah (Niamh Algar), is introduced as a brash, sarcastic self-starter who can punch out any man who hassles her, but she nurses a brooding shame over having to give up a baby she had as an unwed teen. Meanwhile, Joe gets a job at his brother-in-lawâs (Frank Laverty) construction business, where he meets Craigy (Mark OâHalloran), a tetchy worker with a checkered past who remembers living with Joe in the orphanage as kids. Craigy is even more of a nervous wreck than Joe, often barely able to get to the end of a sentence without circumnavigating the globe to get to the point. Joe and Craigy are kindred spirits, as they understand each otherâs pain, but theyâre also triggers for one another, leading to as many moments of strife as camaraderie.
With This Is England and its various TV spinoffs, Meadows tracked the political and social upheavals of modern England through an intimate network narrative of closely entwined stories. The Virtues isnât particularly concerned with the political history of Ireland, but rather the lingering pressures of the religious shame and abuse that shape addled individuals. The finale brings the tacit influence of such personal and institutional manipulations into clarity along with the full extent of the charactersâ trauma in a tautly edited climax that bridges Joe, Dinah, and Craigyâs struggles into a series of tense confrontations in which grace is either bestowed or brutally withheld. Like much of Meadowsâs work, the series has a clear ending, but the characters remain irresolute. Itâs a reminder that even facing up to oneâs problems doesnât guarantee release, but it does at least allow for the possibility of moving forward.
Cast: Stephen Graham, Niamh Algar, Helen Behan, Mark OâHalloran, Frank Laverty, Juliet Ellis, Shea Michael Shaw Network: Topic
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